Half expecting or hoping?
No. Definitely not hoping. She kicked off her shoes and began to undress. It had simply crossed her mind that there was a possibility it might happen.
And if it had? Would she have tried to stop him? Probably not. Just as long as he hadn’t tried to take things any further. She rummaged in her holdall and pulled out her sponge bag. What possible harm could there be in a goodnight kiss?
She went through to the bathroom and dived into the shower, standing under the warm, refreshing jets for a couple of minutes. No harm at all, she reassured herself. A kiss is nothing. Just a kiss. But, all the same, she was frowning as she switched off the water and grabbed one of the soft, pale green towels from the shelf.
Be honest with yourself, Georgia. You wanted him to kiss you. As she rubbed herself dry and crossed to the washbasin to brush her teeth, she caught sight of herself in the big, illuminated mirror. No wonder you look so damned guilty. There’s no question that you wanted it. You wanted it from the moment you got on that plane with him to come here.
So, what’s the problem with that? she asked herself. She finished scrubbing her teeth, rinsed out her toothbrush and slapped on some face cream. He’s single, he’s gorgeous and he’s a nice guy who’s trying to help you. She went through to the bedroom and slipped between the sheets. A kiss, or even more than a kiss, would scarcely be the most terrible thing in the world.
She smiled to herself. Quite the contrary, she suspected. A romantic, sexy interlude with Jean-Claude Lasalle would almost certainly be a rather glorious experience.
Glorious, but short-lived. A small chill went through her. Had she forgotten, in her madness, what kind of man he was? He was the ‘love them and leave them’ kind. Here today and gone tomorrow. And she was simply not the type who went in for brief affairs. She might long for a grand passion, but she also wanted love. She switched off the bedside lamp. No, Lasalle was not for her.
It was as she lay back against the pillows that something clicked into place. Earlier, in the sitting room, she’d been struck by the fact that there was some curious quality about the décor. At the time, she’d been unable to put her finger on what it was, but now, in a flash of sudden insight, she knew.
Though definitely a long way from what she’d call feminine, the room, like the rest of what she’d seen of the flat, bore the soft, intuitive imprint of a woman’s touch. He might not have a wife, but perhaps he had a serious girlfriend. Some long-suffering female who put up with his romantic escapades and to whom, in the end, he always went back.
She closed her eyes. That was almost certainly it. And it was all the more reason for her to steer well clear of him. Thank heavens she’d worked out that little detail in time!
All the same, as she began to drift off to sleep, she was aware that she didn’t feel thankful in the least. What she felt was quite crushed that her wonderful romantic fantasy had been so miserably short-lived.
At the other end of the corridor, Jean-Claude was thinking of Georgia. Dressed in the pyjama bottoms he always wore to sleep in—that was, when he was sleeping alone!—he sat on the edge of the silkcovered bed feeling his desire for her as tight as a clenched fist inside him. More than anything, he wished they were spending the night together.
It had occurred to him, of course, to try and make that happen. In the sitting room, he’d longed to take hold of her and kiss her, and he’d sensed very strongly that she would not have said no. Then again, outside her door, when he’d bade her goodnight, it had required a large dose of will-power to resist taking her in his arms.
Still, he’d managed to resist, though not for the most honourable of reasons. To be honest, he’d abandoned all thoughts of honour the instant he’d set eyes on her this evening, back in Bath. As she’d come towards him through her garden gate, he’d known that he’d never be able to stand by his decision.
The decision in question was one that he’d come to on the drive back to Paris the day after their dinner at Rafferty’s. It had suddenly struck him very forcefully that it would be totally wrong of him to have an affair with her.
She was a wonderful girl, so bright and full of spirit, yet with a gentle, sensitive, almost vulnerable side to her. As well as finding her quite impossibly attractive, he also, he was discovering, liked her enormously. An affair would undoubtedly be hugely satisfying for him, but he had to face the fact that it would not be fair to her.
So, he’d resolved that there’d be no more personal stuff between them. After all, there were plenty of other women in the world. But this evening he’d realised it was totally pointless even to think of making such promises. No other woman in the world would satisfy his need. Right now, the only one he wanted was Georgia.
He slipped between the sheets. He’d wanted her badly tonight, but he’d decided in the end to do nothing about it for the simple, practical reason that it was late and she was tired. But tomorrow would be different Tomorrow, he’d make love to her as she’d never been made love to before in her entire life. He felt a clench of anticipation. And that was a promise.
About to switch off the light, he felt a sudden flash of guilt and glanced at the phone on the bedside table. Damn! He’d forgotten to call and leave his usual message on the answering machine. He began to reach for the receiver. He really ought to do that now.
But at the last minute he changed his mind. I’ll phone in the morning, he decided. And, switching off the light, he sank back against the pillows, knowing he wouldn’t sleep, still thinking of Georgia.
‘I’m in here. Come and join me. I’m just about to have some coffee.’
Georgia spun round in her tracks at the sound of Lasalle’s voice. She’d been on her way to the sitting room to look for him, hurrying past his study door, which she hadn’t even noticed was half-open. Suddenly feeling guilty, she stepped towards it and saw him sitting behind his desk, which was covered with piles of folders and papers. He looked like a man who’d been at work for some time.
She pulled an apologetic face. ‘I’m terribly sorry. I overslept.’
It was nearly half past nine and she’d only wakened about fifteen minutes ago. When she’d seen what time it was, she’d literally leapt out of bed, dived under the shower, then quickly thrown on her clothes—the same green suit as yesterday, though with a burgundy blouse for a change. Then, after pulling a brush through her hair and applying a sweep of mascara to her lashes, she’d hurried off to find him and offer her apologies.
‘You ought to have given me a knock,’ she added, just in case he was about to get mad at her. ‘I didn’t hear a thing. I’m afraid I slept like a log.’
‘That’s OK.’ To her relief, he didn’t look mad at all. In fact, he was smiling as she stepped through the doorway. ‘I had plenty of other things to do in the meantime.
‘Oh, by the way...’ He waved a hand in the direction of the woman who was standing at the bookcase in the far corner of the room. ‘This is Madame Jouet, my personal assistant.’
Less than twenty-four hours ago, Georgia would definitely have been surprised by the sight of the efficient-looking, middle-aged woman who was coming towards her with a smile of greeting. She’d have assumed that his personal assistant would be some glamorous, blonde bimbo, but now that she knew him just a little bit better the very different reality didn’t seem so strange. She was aware that this thought gave her rather a nice feeling.
‘Madame Jouet is just leaving,’ Lasalle was saying now. ‘So, you and I can get started just as soon as you’ve had some breakfast’
He nodded towards the coffee pot that stood on a tray on his desk. ‘There’s plenty of coffee here, but if you want something more substantial I’m afraid you’ll have to help yourself in the kitchen.’
Georgia hesitated. She’d already kept him waiting long enough, but she’d be starving within an hour if she didn’t have something to eat. Her stomach was used to at least a bowl of cornflakes in the morning!
Madame Jouet had obviously
picked up her hesitation. ‘There are some croissants in the kitchen. Come. I’ll show you where they are.’ And, with a kind, motherly smile, she began to lead the way.
‘Thanks,’ Georgia told her. Then she turned to Lasalle. ‘I’ll be very quick. I’ll be back in a couple of seconds.’
Though, as she hurried off behind Madame Jouet, she heard him call after her, ‘No need to hurry. Take all the time you need.’
In the blue and white kitchen, which appeared to boast every gadget known to man, Madame Jouet produced a basket of fresh croissants and took a large jug of freshly squeezed orange juice from the fridge.
‘Monsieur Lasalle still has a couple of phone calls to make, so you really don’t have to rush,’ she assured Georgia. Then she bade her farewell and left her alone.
In spite of everyone telling her she didn’t have to hurry, Georgia gulped everything down in doublequick time. Less than ten minutes later, she was rinsing her plate and glass—no doubt there was a dishwasher tucked away somewhere, but it might be a little cheeky to start poking around!—then she was heading back quickly along the corridor to the study.
Lasalle was talking on the phone when she arrived in the doorway, his face slightly turned away, so he didn’t notice her at once. Georgia paused, really just to admire him, for he was looking even more mouth-watering than usual in a dark blue wool suit and a sparkling white shirt. She certainly wasn’t listening to what he was saying. But he seemed to think she was as, suddenly, he swivelled round, his displeasure plain in every line of his face.
‘I’ll call you back,’ he said in French into the phone, and laid it down.
Georgia very nearly apologised, though she had nothing to apologise for, but the very next instant the anger had vanished from his face.
He smiled at her. ‘Well, did you have some breakfast?’
‘Yes, I did, thanks.’
Perhaps she ought to apologise anyway? Or, at least, assure him that she hadn’t been listening. But he was acting as though the incident hadn’t happened, so it would probably be more diplomatic if she simply acted that way too.
Still, it had obviously been an exceedingly private phone call, though she’d got the impression it was business rather than personal. Whatever his business was, he clearly didn’t want her overhearing it.
There was something else, too, she realised suddenly. All the papers and files that had been on his desk earlier had disappeared. How odd. Did he take her for some kind of spy? Still, it was no skin off her nose if he wanted to keep his affairs secret. It was definitely a bit strange, but that was up to him.
‘Come and sit down. Let me pour you a cup of coffee. I’ve just had one, but I think I’ll join you anyway.’ As she went and sat on one of the chairs that stood in a semi-circle at the side of his desk, he added, ‘I find it easier to work with a cup of coffee at my elbow.’
Georgia smiled. ‘You sound a bit like my aunt Beatrice. She always claims she can never get anything done unless she has a pot of tea brewing.’
As she spoke, a thought struck her. Aunt Beatrice would like him. ‘I like a man who can keep me guessing,’ the feisty septuagenarian often said. And Lasalle was definitely an expert at that! Georgia smiled to herself. She’d never thought of it before, but maybe it was a side of him that appealed to her, too. Dull and predictable he most assuredly was not!
‘So, shall we begin?’ He’d poured them each a coffee and was pushing her cup towards her across the desk. ‘I think we should start with a couple of phone calls.’
‘I’ve brought all the paperwork.’ Georgia reached into her bag and pulled out a sheaf of documents and correspondence they’d stopped off at the shop last night to take from the file. She laid them on the desk. ‘OK. Let’s begin.’
Georgia had expected him to be a pretty smooth operator, but the next couple of hours were a revelation. Jean-Claude Lasalle in action was seriously impressive stuff.
He made phone call after phone call, some lengthy, some brief, referring from time to time to the documents before him or pausing to ask her for the clarification of some detail. He tended to talk very fast, so she understood only a fraction of what he was saying, but she could sense nevertheless the powerful effect of his performance on the parties at the other end of the line.
It was quite a tour de force, and he was doing it all for her. Well, maybe not all for her, but partly. And there was something rather sexy and satisfying about that.
Totally mesmerised, she watched him. She’d never known a man like this before. She’d never even known that men like this existed. If only all the things she suspected about him weren’t true.
Her mind locked into that thought. Maybe they weren’t true. Maybe he wasn’t a Don Juan at all and maybe he didn’t have a serious girlfriend. There could be a perfectly innocent explanation for the feminine touch in the décor of his flat. He could simply have hired a female decorator!
That, after all, was what people like him did. They left jobs like that to the professionals, not to their girlfriends. She smiled to herself. Why hadn’t she thought of that before? It really was the obvious conclusion.
It was just after twelve when he poured them each another coffee and told her, ‘I think we’re making some progress. I haven’t managed to find out what’s happened to your clothes yet, but it’s beginning to look as though Duval’s definitely involved.’
He glanced at his watch. ‘Let me just make another couple of phone calls and then I suggest we go and have lunch. But only a very quick one. We have an appointment at half past two with a friend of mine who I think can help us.’
Georgia shook her head and laughed. ‘I get the impression you’re enjoying this.’ It was true. She could sense a real buzz of enthusiasm radiating towards her across the desk. ‘I reckon you actually rather enjoy playing the sleuth.’
He smiled back at her. ‘Maybe you’re right. I enjoy getting the better of my opponents. I certainly wouldn’t even try to deny that.’
‘And you enjoy the actual fight, not just the winning, I’d say.’
‘I enjoy the battle of wits.’ A smile flashed across his eyes. ‘When I was a child my mother always used to say that I was never happier than when I had somebody to argue with.’
‘Somehow I can believe that.’ She felt a strange twist inside her. It was the first time he’d voluntarily revealed anything about himself. Suddenly, she found herself longing to know more.
But he was changing the subject. ‘I’d say you’re a fighter, too. Look at the way you stood up to Duval.’
Georgia shrugged. ‘I fight when I have to. I don’t like to be beaten.’ Anyone who knew her would testify to that, from her old maths teachers at school to her current long-suffering bank manager! ‘But I don’t think I enjoy the actual fight as much as you do. I certainly haven’t enjoyed my fight with Duval in the least.’
Saying that brought to mind something that had occurred to her this morning. ‘There’s one thing I don’t understand...’ She frowned into his face. ‘Why don’t you just go and confront Duval personally? I actually thought briefly of doing that myself when I was worried I might not be able to get in touch with you.’
‘When I was terrified you were going to let me down,’ would have been more accurate, but it seemed almost ridiculous now that she’d ever thought that.
She smiled at him. ‘A face-to-face confrontation. I would have thought that was your sort of thing?’
‘Possibly, but not in this case.’ Lasalle did not smile back. His expression was suddenly deadly serious and his tone was razor-sharp as he went on to elaborate, ‘And please don’t even think of doing anything like that yourself. As I’ve already told you, Duval is not a man to be trifled with.’
‘OK. It was only a suggestion. There’s no need to bite my head off.’ Georgia sat back defensively. She felt put out, and a little hurt.
His expression instantly softened. ‘I didn’t mean to be sharp. Look, just try to trust me. We’re making good progress. I hav
e every confidence that we’ll manage to track down your clothes soon.’
He sighed and, surprising her, reached out one hand towards her, palm upwards, inviting her to offer him hers. ‘I’m sorry I snapped at you, but you worried me when you said that. Duval’s not the kind of man to seek confrontations with.’
‘I understand. You don’t have to worry. I wasn’t actually planning to.’
She neither offered him her hand nor even so much as glanced at his. She felt stupid for feeling hurt and even more stupid for showing it, and she was mad as hell at him for picking it up.
For a long moment, he looked at her. ‘OK. So we’ve got that straight.’ With an amused, defeated smile, he at last dropped his hand away. ‘Now, let me just quickly make those phone calls. We’re both getting crotchety. I think we need to eat.’
He took her to a little bistro near the Avenue Hoche, a chic little place where he was obviously well known. ‘Try the moules,’ he told her. ‘You’ll never taste better.’
Georgia took his advice and had to agree that he was right. ‘Delicious,’ she told him. ‘The best mussels I’ve ever had.’
She’d long ago recovered from that earlier little spat. As he’d said, it was probably just concern that had made him sharp, and she’d been silly and sensitive and had overreacted. Besides, what a terrible waste if she were to continue to be mad at him! When the two of them were relaxed together, as they were now, just being with him was the most enjoyable thing in the world.
‘I have an idea,’ he told her as he called for the bill. ‘Let’s do something special tonight. Go to a club or something.’ He glanced across at her and smiled. ‘How does that sound?’
‘It sounds good.’
She’d already agreed to stay on another night. While they were eating, he’d explained the situation regarding her missing clothes, which, in a nutshell, was that he needed a little more time and believed it would be helpful if she could stick around a bit longer. ‘OK,’ she’d consented, trying not to sound too keen. She’d actually been rather hoping he’d ask her to do just that!
Waiting for Mr. Wonderful! Page 7